


Bleed Into Me

by Jasminau



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, F/M, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Knife Kink, Murder Mystery, Smoking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23835442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jasminau/pseuds/Jasminau
Summary: Ok first try at something pretty dark and also first time i've written smut so hopefully it's good lmao
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Bleed Into Me

Smoke floats to the ceiling in small clouds, dripping upwards in a flowing stream as the burning cigarette pinched between his fingers creeps closer to its completion. But as the smoke rises, the smell of it falls on us like a blanket of fog, surrounding us long enough that it coats our hair as if it were perfume, sewing itself into the bedsheets that rest languidly over our bodies. The sheets stick to us, our sweat acting as glue, giving our skin a glow that wasn’t there before. 

His hair is soft between my fingers, curls coming undone with my nails barely grazing his scalp. Back and forth, just the way he likes. And when every inch of his head has been scratched with the little energy I have left, I start over, twirling the curls, trying to contain the frizziness the heat and sweat have provoked. 

The heat has settled, sweat is the ghost of what it was when our bodies moved together. Wrapped into each other, trying to get closer as if it were possible. The sweet ache of being stretched, hips rolling against his with a desperate wish to have more. Muscles taut as his breath becomes my own, breathing life into me as I do to him. So different from now, as his back rests against my chest, my arm wrapped around his shoulders, draped over his collarbone to anchor him to me. Though, even now I know he is far from me. Moving the cigarette absently to his mouth, wrapping his lips around the stick as he did to my breasts not long before. Though he does not bite the cigarette as he does to my breasts. The cigarette doesn’t bleed, doesn’t colour in blues and purples when his grip is too tight, doesn’t beg him for more when he’s already giving too much. But it keeps his hands busy when I can’t. Gives him an escape that keeps the itch away, quiet enough so that he can’t hear it.

And it would work, too, if I weren’t the one whispering to him. Sometimes it was gentle, sometimes demanding, but always violent. 

Our chests rise and fall in an off-beat tune, still coming down from the high that we reached. The high that has my inner thighs dripping with our come, that has used our skin as a canvas to smear our own blood upon. The sweat obstructs the blood's ability to dry, as if binding with our skin makes this a reality. We bleed as if it will be our last time, but the hot, dark red liquid always returns. He makes sure of that. And maybe, so do I. Because there’s nothing like seeing your blood painted onto their skin, watching the droplets course from the cut that splits them open. 

The setting sun brightens the red into a golden orange, glazing over the smoke that has now dispersed throughout the entire room, turning sharp objects into a soft hue of colours merged together. It was his favourite time of the day, the promise that darkness is coming, that night isn’t too far and he no longer has to hide. But I know he doesn’t see anything right now. His eyes might be flickering around the room, maybe even fixed onto one object, but I know he isn’t really here. 

I know him too well to think he might be innocently lost in his own thoughts, I know with every second there’s no distraction, every second of silence, his mind fills with gruesome images of death and violence. With the smears of blood that coat us, and the memories of the knife we just sunk into each other’s skin, he might even be thinking about carving someone with the lack of restraint he spares only to me. And I shouldn’t be surprised when even the thought of Jack cutting someone into a sculpture of rotting flesh adds to the wetness that covers my inner thighs.

In that moment, as if he can read my thoughts of him, his head tilts to the side to look at me. His eyes are black like his soul, reflecting no colour, only drawing in and destroying whatever gets too close as if they were two black holes. There’s no life in them, just anger, and brutality only he and I see the beauty in. And they do, draw me in, that is. His lips are soft against mine, a lie to who he truly is, but his scars tell the truth. They’re brutal and rough, flaring against my cheeks like they want to draw a permanent smile onto my skin. I’d probably let him, too. I’ve done it before. Let him draw the knife to my skin, testing to see how far he can push through scratches and cuts until I voice my regrets, and when they don’t come, he sticks the blade deep, carving out a simple letter right under my collarbone that swells with blood. And he did it while inside of me, made me come as my body was enveloped in pain and pleasure. But we didn’t know the difference, both brought the same feeling. It flooded our bodies with a high we couldn’t get enough of. We craved it, got off on it, couldn’t do without it.

“What are you thinking about?” A deep rumble from his chest, voice tired from all the degradation he spoke of before. 

His eyes follow every detail of my face, desperate to know anything and everything that I think about. It’s funny, almost, when he asks me this. He takes pride in his ability to read people, knows just by looking at someone if they’ll squeal if he so much as threatens them with a knife. He’ll drink in their fear, savour all the little emotions before he gifts them with mercy. If, that is. He always gets carried away, loses a little control when the first drop of blood escapes his victim. But I can’t blame him. When the warmth of the blood coats your hands, when you can see the life drain out of them, when there’s still a touch of struggle, those are the best parts. Our heads are in the clouds. We’re not blinded, far from it. Those moments are when we see life for what it really is, when we hear the whisper of truth about life and death, and what it means to be alive. And we listen, relish in the knowledge we’re given, bathe in our work before we’re brought back down to earth. We anchor each other down, a precaution to protect against greed. 

“I thought you could read minds,” Like his, my voice is tired, a quiet whisper but from a different cause. My voice isn’t raw and raspy from demands, from growling hurtful words that only spike my arousal like his is. My voice is broken down into an inaudible murmur from begging and pleading for him. Convincing him I deserve whatever he has to offer.

“You want to, uh, be _difficult_?” There’s a tone of anger that sets my nerves on fire once again, a feeling I can’t help but chase. It always had this effect, made me push against his patience to see how far I could go, what I could get away with until he cracked. I thought it was the thrill of the unknown, and with his unpredictability, I never knew what he’d do, but every day it becomes clearer to me that I like seeing him crack. I like when his body shakes with anger, and I like it when I get to feel the consequences of pushing him too far.

“No…,” I tug at his curls once more before pressing my lips against his forehead. “I’m thinking about you.”

It must’ve been obvious with the way I’m looking at him, but that’s never enough for him. He needs to hear it, needs me to tell him out loud, needs the words to be written in the space between us so that he can gather them and store them away in his mind forever.

The edges of his lips curl to my words. The cuts create little gaps in the corners, then spreading up into harsh, corded scars. They blossom in pale pink, his most beautiful work yet.

Facing away from me, he sits up on the bed, exhibiting the scars that cover the canvas of his back. I can’t help when my hand reaches up, my fingertips a paint-less brush as they trace over every memory. There are some that are small, the cuts had been shallow, barely grazing the surface, as he would say, but still split the skin. Some are thicker, ones that he didn’t allow to heal completely, ones he’d pick at when his fingers got bored. Then there were the scars that ran down his shoulder blades, the ones that look just like the red scratches that trace them. My nails, digging into his back when he’s inside me, digging for some kind of anchor that would save me from getting completely lost in him. Or maybe it was to draw extra blood. He liked the pain either way.

I tug his arm when he goes to reach for another cigarette on the side table, squeezing gentle at the muscles that are so taut. They have never known a world without tension. Just like his mind, the wiry muscles are always ready to spring, waiting for someone or something to call his bluff. 

I hear a grunt first before he looks to me over his shoulder, his curls whisking across the back of his neck.

“What?” 

“Come here,” So much desperation in my voice, although I try to hold it off. I need the closeness, I need his skin against my own. It’s a shame, really, how little time I can go without him near.

But we’ve conditioned ourselves like this, wanted to be each other's entire worlds so that we didn’t have to worry about anything else. We’d have each other, and we would share everything. 

His body lies beside mine, propped up on his elbow with his hand grazing up and down my stomach. Goosebumps rise on my skin, but his touch is hot, almost fevered. The warmth he always possesses no matter how cold and dark his soul is, no matter how many times he bestows pain and suffering on anyone unlucky enough to catch him in an artistic time. 

“What are _you_ thinking about?” Returning the question seems natural, although there are really only two paths this could go down. And with one of his hands distracted, running up my body, and the corner of his mouth twitching up like it was hooked onto a string, it’s easy to guess exactly what he has in mind.

“Do you want me to tell you? … Or—,” A short laugh cuts him off, a low rumble from deep in his chest. “Do you want me to, uh, … _show_ you?”

His hand stops running up and down my stomach, my skin quickly running cold as if he was my only source of heat, as if he was the sun to my universe, and without him, everything would cease to exist. He looks down at me with hooded eyes, his tongue poking out to swiping at the forked scar on his bottom lip. I want to run my own tongue along it, I want to slice it open just so I can taste the iron of his blood. To smear it across my lips as I would with lipstick, though not as neat, I want it to be smeared and messy, for it to spread wherever his lips land on my body.

My hands get lost in his hair once again, pulling him closer to me until our lips meet. I can feel him smiling, the scars only offering more surface to kiss. His hand finds my neck, promptly squeezing sporadically in time with my heartbeat, but as my heart quickens, the squeezes become slower, less willing to let go. The pressure builds in my head as he cuts off the circulation, only sparing me breath when my nails dig into his scalp. He is the puppeteer, my life in his hands and he can choose how he wants to play with it. And there is no fight, I was willing to give myself to him when I met him, and I am now. He pulls the strings and I follow. 

“ _Answer me,_ ” He keeps his hand around my neck, fingers biting into the bruising muscles. 

He likes watching people squirm, likes telling people what to do, then giving no room or opportunity for them to succeed. Gives them a false sense of hope for a matter of seconds before stripping them bare in vulnerability, eliminating any misconception that he wants to indulge in mercy of any kind. As if he has ever wanted to. Anyone would think he is unfamiliar with the entire concept, but I know better. I know that he knows. And I think he knows it a little too much, because that’s when you’re able to make a decision. That’s when the act of mercy stems beyond regret, or guilt. There’s something else, a choice when the sense of remorse is void. He can choose if he wants to employ it or not. And usually, he doesn’t. Not until he gets his fix. 

I’m the only one he cares to give mercy to. Or, maybe I’m not. Maybe whatever he gifts to me is a different kind of torture, one that has me on my knees for him, or one that has him wrapped between my legs in an act of intimacy we know is beyond the physicality. Maybe the torture he bestows onto me is the impossibility to think, to breathe or to feel anything that isn’t him. To have me in the palm of his hand, for him, and only for him.

I strain to make any kind of noise, hands gripping his wrist, though I want him to squeeze harder. I don’t want him to let me breathe until my vision goes black, I want my chest to burn with the urgency for air, and I want my body to know only he has the power to give me what I need.

He smirks. Just a small tug of the corner of his sliced up mouth, but I still see it through the black spots beginning to cloud my vision. His hand releases my throat, lips finding mine before I can take a breath. It’s messy and full of hunger, like the look in my eyes as he choked me had coaxed the carnal desire within him. That’s what he looks for, anyway. Always the eyes. It must be some kind of fascination, borderline obsession, with the way emotion floods them. He gets off on the fear, but I know mine show none. Everything that should instill terror, only makes me want him more. The unpredictability that’s been woven into his bones with no sign of erasing itself keeps me with him. Everything that drives people away is the exact thing making me stay, and will keep me here until he’s done with me. But with the way his lips travel along my jaw and down my neck, lets me know that won’t be for a long time. Every nip at my skin pulls us together, the harder the bite, the longer I’ll stay.

His hand runs down my body, stopping momentarily at my chest to grip my breasts, digging his fingers into the forming bruises that colour the sensitive skin. He shows no mercy here, too, lips finding my nipple before biting down, luring a broken moan from the back of my throat. My back naturally arches towards him, following the pain he’s providing in a sick desire for more. But it’s not one I feel any sort of guilt or shame for. For him, I would do anything. 

He follows the valley of my body, fingertips grazing the skin to draw my attention away from anything else. His touch so faint it’s all I can think about, all I want to think about. And it shouldn’t surprise me when the pressure doesn’t falter once he reaches my clit, circling gentle rotations just enough to pull a series of moans from my lips. His own don’t return to my neck, though. He finds satisfaction in watching me, eyes dark but not angry.

The smell of smoke still sticks to him like the sweat covering our bodies, his breath reminding me of every time he smoked a cigarette after sex. It’s been conditioned into me. The smoke acts as a veil between us and the rest of the room, only slightly blocking our vision of the colours that surround us. The only colours I see now are the black in his eyes, the tan of his skin, the pink of his scars and the blonde of his hair, curling into soft spirals. He eclipses everything, nothing else deserves my attention.

My hips roll against his hand when he pushes two fingers inside of me, watching as a desperate moan leaves my lips. He only moves slightly, shallow thrusts that barely press where I need. And he does it on purpose, waiting for me to crack and fuck myself with his hand. But I don’t, not yet. As much as I want him to reach the deepest parts of my body, I like the teasing. I like when he makes me chase it, the pressure never enough to push me over the edge. He keeps his fingers straight, not daring to curl or spread them. He’ll make me beg, and I will, when he asks. But right now we have a silent agreement. Right now the soft touches keep me in a place he wants. My hips roll like waves, crashing down but always with the promise of coming back. The tide is what keeps me there, his fingers tugging me to reform and crash again. Or maybe he’s the moon, my body the ocean that is always pulled towards him, desperate to close the gap between us. 

Whatever it is, I never stray too far from him. Whether he’s inside me, or simply sharing the same space, there’s always a feeling deep in my stomach, my soul, that anchors me to him. And I know he feels it too. Always seeking each other out. He never says it, but we don’t have to. We’re not weak, there’s no need to verbalise whatever this is between us. Instead, we carve it into each other's skin, rubbing our blood together in an eternal promise to be together. And with his lips finally pressing against my skin, he licks the smeared blood as well, letting our promise sit on his tongue as he travels down my body. His fingers press a little harder, curling slightly against my walls, but it’s still not enough. They move easily, though, the wetness that seeps from my cunt drips into his hand, and he works it back into me.

My body moves with his, arching up towards his lips in an effort to keep him close. My hands find his hair. They pull, nails digging into his scalp with urgency as the pressure from his fingers builds. Again, there’s no mercy. His movements are slow, controlled in a way that needs immense restraint. And he’s using all of it, not letting any part of himself let go. Something that he did so well before he met me, before I taught him the beauty of letting all rage and hatred out to create art on a poor, unfortunate victim. He surprised me with the anger he held, I didn’t know it ran so deeply. It’s merged with his bones, living deep within the marrow to feed his mind and body. And it never seems to run out, no matter how cruel his acts have become. If anything, it grows stronger. A victim’s hatred dripping from their wounds and into Jack’s hands, clinging to his skin until it permeates within him. It binds with his own, building tension within his muscles and stretching out like elastic.

I can feel him ready to snap, muscles tensed but the quick spasms let me know he can’t keep up this control for much longer.

“Jack, please,” I whisper, as if exchanging a secret even when there’s no one in the room but us. “Show me,”

His fingers curl and press hard against my walls before pulling out completely, leaving me empty. I still feel numb from earlier, my mind no longer focusing on the sharp stinging of the cuts that litter my body. Instead, it only follows Jacks’ touch. With his hands spreading me open by my knees, and his lips kissing up my inner thighs, it’s all I’ll ever feel. My body used to be fragile, easily broken when he hardly even touched me, only squeezed my neck until I couldn’t breathe, only sunk the knife in deep enough to get a single droplet of blood, retreating in on itself after just one round. But he trained me up, pushing boundaries until the boundaries were no more. Now, my body keens for him, no longer satisfied with just one slice of his knife, or a couple of bruises. 

He knows what my body needs, what I need, to feel content. Sometimes it’s a struggle, knowing if our need comes from wanting each other or wanting to watch someone cry for help as they bleed out. Sometimes it’s too late to reach the conclusion. The feelings are too merged, close to being the same thing. 

Watching as I carefully carve my knife into someone’s skin is the same feeling as Jack’s tongue licking up my folds and swirling against my clit, blood dripping from the wound like my cum seeps out down his chin. His thumbs spread me open, open wounds not giving him what my cunt does. Though his licks are lazy, no stroke goes without purpose. He knows what he’s doing, he knows that even as his control ebbs, he can get me off with just his tongue and scars. His lips are soft, but his scars offer a roughness I couldn’t do without. They push on me, grazing against my cunt as he licks into it, pushing in and out with his nose brushing on my clit. 

I get lost in it, hips rolling and body shuddering in an overstimulation he doesn’t care about. It becomes blurry, every touch hitting seconds after it actually happened. Waves of pleasure rush over me, drowning me in a state of ecstacy before I even knew I was under. I want to stay like this forever, feeling each molecule collide with the ones that make up my body. It feels too out of reach, reality falling down like I shed my clothes, exposing truth in that life is only meant to be pleasure, and we must seek it. Though, with the high of pleasure falling, the wave crashes and I’m brought back to the one that gifted it to me. His lips suck on my clit with fingers pressing against my walls. I didn't realise that he had pushed two fingers inside me, though with the high it brought me, and the feeling of not being completely empty, I find myself grateful.

His lips don’t leave me until I’m brought back to Earth completely, almost pushing me into another rush of pure ecstasy before drawing away. But my mind still hasn’t caught up, still in the aftereffects of the high, leaving me in a state where reality is dulled and anything that isn’t Jack has no string of importance. But when does it ever? It always has been, and always will be, solely Jack. Life starts and ends with him. I gave life to him, and he will strip mine from me.

He eclipses everything when he climbs over my body, the mattress depressing under his weight with the old springs groaning under the pressure. I try to keep myself in the moment, begging for reality to be the only line of thought as my fingers dig into his shoulders. His skin is hot, a fire burning where our skin meets. It’s like our bodies cause destruction, particles meet and anything that gets in their way becomes nothing but yet another missing persons headline in the media. We come together to destroy, to mold each other, picking out the useful parts and throwing out the rest. Ensuring we both see the full picture at all times, I’ll wisp away whatever blinds him just as I tuck the spirals of blonde hair clouding his vision behind his ears. The action brings a smile to his lips, and it brings a cascade of folding at his scars. They look painful, I can hear screaming when I find them, white hot terror through the ripples where skin has been sliced apart. If I think about it too much, if I watch the way the scars move too much, I begin to see blood spilling from them, like the trauma is being reenacted right in front of me. I have never seen such beauty. 

His eyes following the trail of blood down the front of my body until he reaches between my legs, taking hold of himself so his tip presses against my entrance. The pressure builds slowly, the stretch burning as he pushes into me, eye shut tightly closed with his face contorting from the pleasure. I barely catch it, my own eyes screwing shut and a whining moan leaving my lips. I only remember to breathe when his thrusting knocks most of the air from my lungs.

I know he’s watching me, gazing down in cruel amusement when all my body can do is respond to his harsh movements. The dark eyes flicker down to my chest, no doubtedly getting a little lost in the image of warm, red liquid coating my breasts, that still pours from some cuts as if the wounds never want to close. Always flowing against the constraints of my vessels. His slashes of affection drip with blood too, the one beneath his collarbone most appealing with its jagged cut, exposing the cruelty that took over my hand in search for a peak into his soul. Before I know it, my fingers are trailing every cut and scar I’ve tattooed onto his body. It’s blurry with our constant movement, but my thumbs find the deep wound on his collarbone and press into it, my nerves set on fire by the reward of his groan and the blood that slowly trickles down to my wrists. 

I bring my thumb to my lips, tongue coming out and licking the droplets of warm liquid. Just when his eyes become darker than they ever were before, I wrap my lips around the tip of my thumb and suck, hollowing out my cheeks and moaning when the taste of him finally hits me. His thrusts get harder, as if the sight of what I had just done struck a nerve of no return, as if seeing his blood on my lips puts him in a carnal frenzy, his grunts and heavy breathing becoming more animalist by the second. I don’t know when he put his hand around my neck again, but he’s squeezing. Hard. Slowing down everything around me until all I know is how his hips hit my inner thighs, bruising them to chase his own pleasure. He spares me a breath just before my vision goes black, and I use my sight to bring my thumbs to my own wounds, gathering my blood and bringing it up to his face.

I’ve wanted to do this for a while. Something changed in me when I watched his split cheeks run with blood and drip down his face. The memory is fuzzy, like a soft dream where things don’t add up but make sense anyway. I can remember him cutting them himself, taking the blade to the corner of his lips in a fit of rage and slicing the skin. But I can also remember visiting the hospital after finding out he’d been jumped, watching him unconscious on the hospital bed, chest rising and falling gently with his face wrapped in bandages. Whatever the case, I can’t imagine him without the scars. They’re etched into his soul as much as they’ve been sliced into his face. His face without them is forgotten. Or maybe the memories were never made, maybe he was like this when I met him. But all that matters now is this, how my thumbs smear my blood over his lips. Though, I don’t stop at the corners. I merge his lips with his scars, the blood morphing them together as it climbs up his cheeks. 

I hardly finish tracing his scars before I’m kissing him, sucking on his bottom lip and biting down to split it. I want his blood and my own. I only know he’s realised what I’ve done by the harshness in his thrusts and grip around my neck. When he breaks the kiss, his eyes are glazed over, and for once I don’t know what he’s thinking. Our bodies are as close as they could possibly be, sweat and blood glowing on our skin while he pushes himself deeper inside of me. But something’s off. His grip on my neck gets tighter, fucking me with so much aggression as if he doesn’t care if it hurts, as if he wants it to hurt. And when my nails digging into his skin doesn’t bring him down to earth, I wonder if he knows I’m here, if he can hear anything I’m saying to him. Not that it matters, all I’m doing is encouraging him. Ignoring my body screaming for mercy, I want this to hurt, to continue to hurt. I can feel he’s close, even if he is a million miles away. His body speaks to mine, pushing me closer and closer to orgasm with every ruthless thrust. 

With his hand taking away the ability to breathe, I can’t hear when I cum, I can’t hear the screams and moans that rip from my throat when he doesn’t let up and I hit another high. My vision breaks into black dots, all that I can feel is him and the grip he has on my soul. I don’t realise that it’s stopped for a while, that his thrusts have slowed, but not letting up the desire to be fully inside me. He pushes, making sure his cum reaches the deepest parts of me, marking what’s his. 

I find myself clinging onto him, arms wrapped around his shoulders as his hot breath hits my neck. I feel like I’m on fire, and I can’t tell if it’s the aftermath of all the sweet cuts that litter my skin, or if my body feels awakened from the cruelty he gifted to me. He’s been harsh before, rough and mean and uncaring, but never like this. Never like he wanted to rip the life from me and never give it back. But with his breath slowing, and movements becoming gentler, I find I want him to do it again. To spare me no mercy, to absorb me and ruin me, to completely tear me apart, then stitch me back together again. 

We stay wrapped into each other for a while, letting minutes pass before he finds himself again, before he pulls away to look at his work. To see the bruises blossom around my neck, to watch the cuts drip with blood, to watch my chest rise and fall with heavy pants. 

He leans down to kiss me one last time, his grip finding my jaw once again to position me just how he wants. He is the puppeteer, and I know I’ll keep the strings tied for him to control me, to dictate everything I am and everything that I do.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok first try at something pretty dark and also first time i've written smut so hopefully it's good lmao


End file.
